


cutting off the blood to ten

by inamorromani



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Death, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, i dont even know what to tag this, this is kinda dark but it is what it izzz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26050192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamorromani/pseuds/inamorromani
Summary: At least there's no second time.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 17
Kudos: 66





	cutting off the blood to ten

**Author's Note:**

> for @/walkdownthealley on tumblr. thank you so much, and thank you for your patience. i hope this is worth the wait <3

The pulse of the village beats a mad tattoo of  _ too much, too much, too much _ . Everyday there’s some tufting needle an artisan needs replaced, a wreath of flowers he needs to evaluate before it goes up in the commons, something that needs his signature off a thumbprint-sized chop. Hashirama keeps buying him chops. Hashirama keeps buying him  _ chops  _ for his  _ desk  _ which is weird to think about in more ways than Madara can actually count. 

_ Hashirama keeps buying him chops for his desk _ and he keeps Madara’s bed warm while he smokes and takes walks, and everything happened so fast, continues to happen so fast that Madara can’t even stop to catch a breath between kisses. 

It’s not like he minds- not really. Being with Hashirama felt natural; far more natural than it had been with any of his previous partners. 

Compared to Hashirama, everything else is a ship passing in the night. 

Madara likes to survey the Nanako. There’s been talk of converting it into a canal- which Hashirama, naturally, was  _ staunchly  _ opposed to- for trade within the country. Madara, admittedly, doesn’t really know what’s involved with the ins-and-outs of canal-making. Hashirama insists that they’d ravage the natural beauty of the countryside in the construction process, and Madara takes him at his word. 

He doesn’t know why he’d ever  _ not  _ taken Hashirama at his word. 

He’s sitting at the edge of the water with his knees drawn up to his chest, searching the horizon for starlight, or for some glimmer of reprieve- but he knows, intrinsically, that it  _ just isn’t there _ . Besides that, Hashirama is either still working, or out gambling, or scratching lottery tickets in their bedroom- not that Konoha has much of a lottery program to speak of, but that doesn’t seem to keep the other man from pouring all their surpluses from the  _ daimyo  _ into scratch tickets. 

In another world, another life, it might have been endearing. Right now Madara can scarcely even thinking about Hashirama’s gambling without developing a headache. 

The Nanako is the same, at least fundamentally. Madara thinks maybe he’d heard a proverb before, somewhere- that the river is never the same twice. The water flushes itself out into the ocean somewhere, the pebbles roll in curved paths along the riverbed. Sandals kick up the sediment in a mockery of cloudy skies and duststorms. 

Madara leans back on his hands. 

There’s an unseen cost of village-building, the bearing your every sacred place to a slew of strangers- and Madara is slowly but surely beginning to feel it outweighs the rewards.

Because really, what could he possibly hope to gain from the village? The village won’t bring Izuna back-  _ won’t bring the others back either,  _ and even without it, he’s safe on his own, strong enough to stand by himself against whatever else the world has left to throw at him-

Except, of course, for Hashirama.

Hashirama, Hashirama,  _ always  _ Hashirama. Madara finds himself cowed more often than not, backed into a corner in a board room or on the sparring grounds with his shoulders pressed up against the border wall, Hashirama’s hands supporting him by his thighs, muscles slack or trembling from exertion. 

He drags a hand down his face. He tastes sand, sticks his tongue out in disgust. 

Sometimes it feels less like he’s  _ with  _ Hashirama, more like he’s with a counterpart Hashirama from an alternate dimension. 

Madara doesn’t let himself entertain the idea that Hashirama is… well,  _ slowing down _ . Distracted, off-guard more often than not, less one-with-nature and more one-with-man. Being with Hashirama is increasingly an effort of trying to find a balance between administrative work and affection, and it leaves Madara feeling irrevocably bitter. 

It’s not what he’d envisioned for them- passing touches between meetings, terse conversations over finances, sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, sometimes opposite sides of the village when Madara could be assed to go home. There’s a sterility to their relationship that was never present before the village-  _ or perhaps, more accurately, after Izuna.  _

Madara thinks that maybe Izuna’s death has become the defining point of his life. He measures time in increments of  _ before, with Izuna  _ and  _ after, without Izuna _ \- steadily drifting out from the shore, the stability he’d always found in Hashirama. Maybe it’s a fixture of the trauma- maybe it’s an omen. Generally, he tries not to think about it.

The river is never the same- at least there’s the consistency of change within the context of the Nanako. The landscape changes, sure enough, but it changes in a way that seems to accommodate Madara. 

There’s footsteps behind him somewhere, measured, careful, curious. Far too big to be one of the feral cats that have taken to the village- and, by extension, to him- and far too subtle to be Hashirama. Either way, Madara doesn’t bother with a kunai- he activates his sharingan lazily, glances up over his shoulder. 

And  _ surprise _ \- there’s Hashirama, with a wicker basket balanced over his forearm, his expression stunned and  _ supremely  _ guilty. He’s wearing a charming ensemble of indigo-colored fisherman’s pants and a deep, cactus-green blouse- no doubt from one of the imports boutiques that had sprung up around the village. 

He wears it  _ well,  _ and that makes Madara resent him even more. 

“Hm,” Madara says by way of greeting. Hashirama smiles gently. 

“I thought I’d find you out here,” he says quietly. Madara wrinkles his nose. 

“Good guess,” he says dismissively. 

Despite everything, he can’t help himself; when Hashirama settles down beside him, toes off his sandals, Madara leans into him, swallows around the bitter taste in his mouth. Hashirama strokes his hair. Feels like home- doesn’t make Madara feel any less frustrated, any less lost, any less overwhelmed. In fact, Hashirama has a unique talent for making Madara feel overwhelmed  _ all  _ the time. 

“I’ve missed you,” Hashirama says wistfully- and Madara can’t help but snort. 

He sounds like a teenager again- all shoulder length hair and wide, wild eyes, stealing secret touches and kisses, hypervigilant and awkward.

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” Madara says lamely. Hashirama exhales shakily. 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” 

Madara closes his eyes. Hashirama smells like earth and cedar and plum wine and iron, and he’s so unbelievably warm- it melts the anger out of him like wax. Always, Madara is moments from actually getting angry at him, moments from taking off into the woods and running for his life and never turning around again and then somehow, Hashirama placates him- his presence alone is a balm to Madara’s soul. 

Hashirama is the only weakness Madara thinks anyone could ever exploit- but there’s a certain comfort in knowing that Hashirama could never allow himself to be exploited. 

“I know,” Madara murmurs, “I’m sorry.” 

It’s a bald statement, but an honest one. Hashirama squeezes his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, too.” 

“I just can’t… get excited about the same things that you do, I guess.” 

“No, no,” Hashirama says urgently, “no, I understand. I do. I really do.” 

Madara sets his jaw, nods. They sit in bitter silence for a moment, Madara’s head resting lightly against Hashirama’s shoulder. 

He doesn’t want to be angry- he doesn’t want to be tired or frustrated or difficult or any number of things. He wants to just sit back and fucking  _ be _ , to enjoy what they’ve created together without feeling overwhelmed. 

Hashirama squeezes his forearm, presses a tender kiss to the crown of his head. 

“Your hair smells nice,” Hashirama says, and then, without missing a beat, “I’d like to be buried together out here.”

Madara’s blood runs cold for a second. He swallows. “Yeah?” 

Hashirama hums contentedly, combs his fingers through Madara’s mess of wild curls. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I think it would be really peaceful. It’d be a nice place to rest. Don’t you agree?” 

Madara nods. 

He doesn’t want to think that far ahead- nor does he want to dwell on the past, either- certainly not with Hashirama beside him, quiet and calm and uncharacteristically serious. 

“Are-” his voice cracks, and he flinches, “are you alright, Hashirama?”

“Hm?” 

“Are you alright.” 

“Alright enough,” Hashirama answers cryptically. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately-” 

“I told you you shouldn’t do that. It isn’t good for you.” 

“Ha!” Hashirama shoves him lightly, kisses the side of his neck, rests their heads together. Madara loves it-  _ Madara loves him _ , though he rarely has the courage to admit that to either of them. “No, really,” Hashirama continues, “I mean, it’s- it’s something we should think about. We’re old, for  _ shinobi _ .” 

Madara wrinkles his nose. “Hashirama, what exactly are you getting at?” 

“I’m just saying it couldn’t hurt to- to plan these things out in advance, you know?”

“I want to be cremated,” Madara says baldly, “but you can put my ashes in with you.” 

“That’s  _ morbid _ !” 

“You’re the one who brought it up!” Madara counters, twisting around so he can pinch Hashirama’s side. The Senju makes an undignified sound of surprise, swats at Madara’s hands halfheartedly. 

“Seems to have put you in a better mood, at least,” Hashirama murmurs. “You sure are a strange one, Madara.” 

Madara huffs impatiently. “You forget yourself.” 

  
  


They develop an after-festival routine surprisingly quick. 

They stumble into their bedroom, and Hashirama pulls drunkenly at their clothes. They land in a pile of silk and cord at the edge of the bed and Hashirama kisses across Madara’s chest, holds his waist securely like Madara might slip away like sand between his fingers. 

To be fair, it’s not a completely unfounded fear- it becomes progressively harder for him to ignore the urge to  _ run for his fucking life _ when he’s drunk, away from the village, away from Hashirama, and from everything they’d built together. Unfounded isn’t quite the word, Madara thinks- it’s his body screaming at him, some far-off voice behind him calling  _ run run run _ . 

Hashirama had suggested he consult one of the Yamanaka. Madara had ignored him.

After all, there was no better medicine than Hashirama’s hands on his chest, Hashirama’s lips against his ear, Hashirama all over him- and in the same breath, there was nothing that made him feel sicker than Hashirama and his hands and his lips and  _ all over him everywhere _ . 

Madara clears his throat. His leg is thrown over Hashirama’s waist, their hands a mess of scars and fingers wrapped around each other’s wrists. It’s comfortable, cozy, even- rather, it would be if there wasn’t still that insistent cry of  _ run run run _ somewhere at the periphery of Madara’s consciousness. 

Hashirama’s lips pass up over his throat- he hums out a laugh. Madara reaches up and winds his hair around his fingers, drags him in rough and desperate. 

Robes come flying off shoulders like open curtains. Hashirama has always loved bright colors, reds and golds and rich blues. Expensive-looking fabrics, expertly crafted closures. Madara’s hands can’t rip them open fast enough. 

He likes Hashirama more without the mask of the  _ hokage _ . He likes when his stern expressions give way to bright smiles and laughter and honey-brown eyes turning up at the corners. He hates the Hashirama that gifts him jade chops and stationary and delicate clothes- he much prefers when Hashirama is all wild hair and bare skin and sweat and laughter. He likes Hashirama without the barrier. 

He likes the Hashirama that calls him  _ beautiful beautiful beautiful  _ more than he likes discreet touches and dull, conspiratorial looks across boardrooms and inn lobbies painted muted, earthy colors. Madara touches the small of his back and Hashirama makes a soft, started sound, smiles against his mouth. 

“Touchy,” he says warmly. 

Madara scoffs. “Aren’t I always?” 

“Not  _ always _ ,” Hashirama murmurs, “you get cagey sometimes.”

“Define-” Madara swallows a moan as Hashirama’s hands glide down across his hips, fingers graze the insides of his thighs, “define  _ cagey _ .” 

Hashirama hums thoughtfully, slides back on his knees and lifts Madara’s thigh up to rest it over his shoulder. “Far-off,” he says breathlessly, “hard to reach.” 

Madara bites back an  _ if only you knew _ and passes his fingers through Hashirama’s hair. 

There’s fireworks outside, flashes of gunpowder and light against a brightening, light-polluted sky. It smells like incense and fire and hearth and silk, and Hashirama’s sweet sighs and laughter cut across the snap of pyrotechnics and night. 

Leaving is easy enough, the first time. 

Madara wraps his shins, cleans the paint off his face and slips out the window. He doesn’t have it in him to look back or kiss Hashirama goodbye. He doesn’t trust himself enough not to change his mind and crawl right back into bed, despondent. 

It’s even easier to lose track of days- by the time Madara can admit to himself that he hates being alone in the wilderness even more than he hates the banality of working in the office with Hashirama, he’s been gone for an odd-week and one of Tobirama’s freshly minted  _ anbu _ squads has trailed him to the far edge of fire country. 

Madara goes tumbling to the forest floor unceremoniously, a flash of knife edge and bared teeth and blood. There’s one  _ anbu _ with a knee up under his neck, another sitting solidly on his ankles, and another holding his wrist behind his back. 

There’s talk of defecting- Madara doesn’t have the wherewithal to defend himself. It comes out toothless, no bark or bite to speak of, and he makes his way back to the village in stony silence, flanked by  _ anbu  _ on all sides and utterly disaffected.

And speaking of disaffected, when he sees Hashirama again there’s no waterworks, no tearful reunion or warm, wanting embrace at the gates. Hashirama is waiting, arms folded, expression guarded. He rests his hand very gently between Madara’s shoulders and walks him home, cleans his hair with warm water and puts him to bed with nothing but passing, unfeeling murmurs of  _ is that too hot? Did that feel alright?  _

Madara hates it. Madara hates the cold, clinical Hashirama even more than the courteous, unexciting  _ hokage  _ Hashirama. He hates the village, hates himself, if for no other reason than he can’t bring himself to leave it properly. 

  
  


At least there’s no second time. 

Spring comes, and Hashirama warms up gradually. Madara makes an ever-concerted effort to ignore the cry of  _ run run run  _ and it quiets down eventually. 

Of course, in its place, there comes  _ I miss Izuna, I’m overwhelmed, I just want to rest, I just want to rest,  _ and Madara hates and loves that Hashirama understands. Sometimes, he leaves him behind to go on diplomatic missions- returns with souvenirs and dying tropical plants or unique looking rocks. Other times Madara goes just to sit quietly at the inn and wait out the delegations, waste pads of stationary painting abstract shapes with drafting ink. 

Hashirama always comes back and thumbs though Madara’s ink splotches with a thoughtful, open expression on his face. Tells him maybe he should teach an arts class at the academy. 

That usually gets a laugh out of Madara- picturing himself in a smock, struggling with an easel, sleeves tied back to reveal the map of battle scars on his forearms to the coddled village kids. 

It’s better that they’re coddled, in the end, Madara thinks. It’s alien, sure, but it’s far better than the alternative, and this is what he wanted since the beginning. 

Hashirama kisses his back, his neck, across his shoulders. “Growing pains,” he hums, “it’s natural. I’m still here.” Madara will close his eyes, lean back, kiss the underside of Hashirama’s jaw, tired, phantom smiles against his throat. 

He still smells like earth and river water, still cracks bad jokes and pouts like a child, impatient and thrumming with energy, hot-blooded and overeager. He’s still a diplomat, and Madara is slowly accepting that he can be both- that the Hashirama he loves doesn’t just disappear when he puts on the robes. The Hashirama he loves just changes, and all the while Madara refuses to move. 

There are moments, still, where Madara thinks his stubbornness might be their undoing. Hashirama proves immensely talented at kissing them away. 

  
  


They pick out their plots a few summers in. Tobirama, much to his chagrin, follows them around the graveyard at the edge of the village with a survey scroll and a set of wooden stakes. 

Tobirama has aged  _ horribly _ \- not that Madara is much worse for wear, in the end, but there’s something unreasonably rewarding in seeing Tobirama with sun spots and fine lines around the corners of his eyes. 

Madara doesn’t hate him- not anymore, not really, but sometimes he wishes Izuna were here to make fun of Tobirama with. Hashirama tends to shush him- sometimes the comments cross a line of biting and silver-tongued to outright bitter. 

“I still think this is morbid,” Madara mutters. His voice is rougher than it was- not quite scratchy, but worn from all the smoking and  _ katon  _ demonstrations at the academy. Hashirama, infuriatingly enough, finds it  _ charming _ . 

“It’s natural!” Hashirama insists, smile bright and maddeningly ageless, “Everybody dies. Isn’t it better to be prepared for it?”

“Prepared, sure. Preoccupied, not so much,” Madara idly pushes back his cuticles. Tobirama sucks his teeth. 

“Please just pick a plot so I can mark it,” he says at length, “I’m getting a headache from being out in the sun so long.”

In the end, it’s just a tiny swatch of land under an old tree, which Tobirama suspects might be rotting from the inside out. He marks down the plot with a grimace. 

“You’re not afraid to die, are you?” Hashirama asks. 

Madara rolls onto his side. They’re lying in bed, burning incense with the windows open and Hashirama’s robes undone. He’s chewing on the cord of his necklace, and the light from the oil lamp at their bedside makes his eyes look green. 

Madara doesn’t know what it  _ is  _ about Hashirama. It’s not something he’s ever been good at putting to words, or quantifying- just that he’s magnetic and morbid and that Madara loves it. He loves the way his eyes change colors depending on the light they catch, and loves the way he asks the weirdest fucking questions at the most fucking inopportune times. 

“I don’t think so,” Madara says dully, “I just wish I knew what comes after.” 

“I hope there’s no after,” Hashirama yawns, stretches. His back pops, and he grimaces. Madara huffs out a little laugh. “I hope it’s just like this forever.” 


End file.
